Faded
by Rianna Lauren
Summary: Tintin was no longer the "young, famous reporter". He was done with everything. It's been tens of years. And out of the blue, he collided with his old arch nemesis. What goes through his mind?
1. Chapter 1

**Faded**

The door slowly creaked open and Tintin walked out from his room. He shut the door behind him and let out a long sigh. Slowly and weakly – like he always is – he walked towards the stairs of Marlinspike, heading to the living room.

His eyes couldn't help but gaze on the rooms as he passed by. When everyone else chose to leave, he chose to stay. After everything he went through, he ended up alone, on his own.

He descended the stairs and stepped into the living room, and memories started to flood him again. He frowned – everything and everyone who used to be there weren't with him anymore. Right now, he couldn't even remember why he made his choice in the first place.

Tintin sat down on the green armchair in front of the fireplace. The chair was enwrapped by dusty plastic, but at that time, he didn't really care at all.

For one moment he just stayed there, taking in the sight of his surroundings. The old fireplace with spider webs tangled around it, the television set that barely worked anymore, and the red dusty carpet lying on the floor.

He leaned back and placed his hand on the armrest. A small, almost-invisible smile crept up to his lips. He just couldn't forget.

This is where Captain Haddock used to sit.

Everything else came rushing to his mind – the whiskey he used to drink, his curses that were no match for others, and all the bits of adventures he helped him to go through. A best friend that Tintin could never ever forget.

He looked down to the carpet, then to the fireplace. It felt as if it was just yesterday that his white fox terrier was on that carpet, cuddled up in front of the warm glow of fire. Snowy, his true, loyal dog. His best companion and friend. His bark echoed in his mind, and he could almost see him running cheerfully across the room.

Almost.

If only they had all the time in the world, if only life lasts forever, Tintin wouldn't be the person he was right now.

Captain Haddock, years ago before this day, grew old along with his own spirit of travel and adventure. He would most likely stay home whenever Tintin goes out. He couldn't be much of a company to Tintin as he used to – his body was weaker by the year, and Tintin had to stay in most of the time to take care of him.

He was tired and exhausted, but not much realizing that Tintin, the "young famous reporter", was not so young anymore.

Time went by and Haddock knew he wasn't going to live forever. Many times he tried to evoke the old sailor in him and sail in the big blue once again. After many attempts, he gathered it up and headed for the seas for one last adventure – sailing around the world.

"Weren't _you_ an adventurer, landlubber?" he asked Tintin that day, with the hoarse voice he had left.

He tried to persuade Tintin to come with him. But Tintin rejected – he was getting old and he was tired. He was done with his reporter business, he was done with fighting crime, and he was done with chasing bad guys…

He had enough.

Haddock kept insisting and tried to bring back the adventurer in Tintin, like what he did to himself.

"I miss the seas, lad," he said that day. "How can you not miss what you did all those years?"

Tintin didn't know the answer. He was old. That was it. He said no, and he didn't change his mind. Eventually, Haddock left the estate and went off to spend the time he had left with the seas – without Tintin.

But that was many years ago. And right now, Tintin almost regretted his decision. As years passed he still hadn't received any news from him. No phone calls, no telegram, nothing. And many days, almost every day, he wondered if the Captain was even still alive.

And Snowy… time wasn't at his side. He grew old along with Tintin. He couldn't run, he couldn't bark as cheery as he used to, and he couldn't help Tintin with what he did anymore. And when the time came, Snowy passed away.

It took Tintin almost a whole year to cope with his death. "It's just a dog," you'd say. But to Tintin, Snowy was so much more than just a dog.

Right now, he'd do anything to see them. 'It was almost out of character,' he thought. It had always been Tintin who dragged the Captain out for adventures. But at one point, it was the other way around.

'And stupidly,' he thought again, 'I said no.'

And this is where he ended up – all alone, with no knowledge of the whereabouts of his friends, living in the only place that kept on reminding him of everyone he left. He knew the truth – they didn't leave him. He left them. When he could've done so much in his life, he wasted his time. The adventures, the thrill, the amazing stories…

…They didn't have to stop.

Tintin got up from his seat and exhaled. He often got one of those days, those days when he kept reminding himself of all the people he left. But a day when the idea that this wasn't supposed to happen suddenly smacked him, it was his first.

He made the wrong decision, and what a wrong decision it was. This wasn't the future he was supposed to have. This wasn't the way an aged Tintin should spend his days.

A thought suddenly hit him, and with confidence in every step, he ascended the stairs and returned to his room. He opened the door to his wardrobe and reached to the deepest corner. He withdrew his hand and smiled at the object he grabbed.

It was his old, beige trenchcoat.

He could almost feel adrenaline rushing through him, like it used to. Flashes of memories came back to him – racing against the clock, running from danger, chasing criminals – he inhaled, almost gasping, as his eyes slightly lit up.

Now he _truly_ remembered.

Tintin strolled over to the mirror and stared at his own reflection. A small, sad smile crawled up to his lips.

"It's been a long time, Tintin," he whispered to himself. "Long time."

It had been years. Tens of years. His face was wrinkled, and so was most of his skin. His hair was no longer bright orange, most of it had turned white. His quiff barely stood up, and he could just remember how less people recognized him as the famous reporter, compared to the day when he was young.

He couldn't blame it to himself. Even with the highest spirit of adventures burning inside of him, he couldn't. He grew older. Weaker. Unable to do things he usually did in the past… at least that's how he'd seen it.

That's why he stayed, he thought. He was no longer the Tintin that everyone used to know. It wasn't his time anymore.

Tintin kept gazing at the mirror. Slowly, he put on his beige trenchcoat. He stood straight and pulled down the lower edge of his coat. And he could see it in the mirror, that young adventurous boy, ready to face anything. He blinked, and could've sworn he saw them – Snowy, the Captain, even the Professor – his smile widened and he was almost grinning.

But it was only a momentary bliss.

His smile quickly faded and the real mirror reflection came back to his sight. His gaze lowered from his face to his old trenchcoat. It was old, its color was faded, and it was almost worn-out.

He reached to the hem of his coat and was about to slid it off, ending his temporary world of fantasy, until another thought hit him.

Didn't the Captain go despite of his old age?

Tintni glared at the mirror, as if trying to pierce through it. His adventurous spirit hadn't died, as the fact was he missed it so much right now. And it was a blessing that he could still stand on his own feet and in no urgent need to wear spectacles at his age.

Guess he wasn't that old after all.

He could still be out there right now, couldn't he? He knew he could. What did he do to himself?

What was he afraid of?

It didn't have to be a mere fantasy. It could still be real right now. He didn't have to give up, he still had the chance.

A genuine smile spread on his lips as he slid his coat back into position. Walking out the door and stepping down the stairs, he was about to do one thing he hadn't done for a long time – setting his foot outside of Marlinspike.


	2. Chapter 2

Tintin swung open the front door of Marlinspike Hall and inhaled the sweet, fresh scent of the afternoon breeze. He eyed his surroundings, taking in the sight of the trees and grasses around him. They were a beautiful blend of jade and emerald to his eyes, instead of just a simple green – probably because he haven't went out of the house for so long, and he rarely took notice of his environment if he ever did.

His eyes trailed upwards and glanced at the sky. It was an elegant shade of slightly dark blue, with hints of orange from the dim, golden sun hidden behind the smooth, soft clouds.

It was then that he realized how he should come out more often and rebuild his appreciation towards nature – something he used to show many times when he was younger.

As soon as the door was shut, Tintin walked out, turned towards the building, and stared at it.

After so many years, going through the hottest summer and the coldest winter, Marlinspike Hall has been a place for Tintin to call home. Throughout the time, it went through many renovations, faced the worst of weathers and provided him with the long-lasting protection and comfort.

And there it was, standing tall in all its glory.

He gave out a small smile before gently tugging down the edge of his trenchcoat and strolled away from the estate.

The streets were full of zooming cars and busy citizens. Brussels wasn't as crowded as this, back then. It was the time of a more quiet and peaceful town, with all the shops and stores he used to visit during his free time. Now, walking past where they used to be, he wondered whatever happened to them.

He couldn't remember well the last time he went out for a relaxing walk like this. He missed it so much. He missed looking at the old sights of the town.

Looks like he wasn't the only one who changed.

Tintin took a turn towards a narrower alley, still unsure of his destination, or how far was he going to go. He flanked at the buildings and people around him – the further he walked, the more every little thing reminded of all the people he had back then.

Each and every one of the people from his past that helped him go through so many things throughout the years were the closest thing he ever had as a family. They were the ones who would stay by his side in every sort of situation. They were always with him.

And in return, he selfishly left them.

He blinked rapidly and breathed deeply. It was no use to think about it over and over again. Regret always comes last, and he could do nothing to change whatever happened in the past.

It was too late. _He_ was too late.

Though somehow, he couldn't protect himself from the attack of his own regrets.

But at least he was one step closer to getting back what he lost back then and was lucky to be able to recover – _adventure_.

Every step he took along this alley already felt like an adventure to him. Of course, it was a major exaggeration, but he hadn't gone out for _that long_. Everything felt new, and he almost felt he was back in his youth.

It was there, yet it felt so far away.

Another turn, and he was back in the main streets. He still didn't know where he was going, and come to think of it, he hadn't really noticed which route he took from Marlinspike to where he was now.

…Wherever he was.

He was forced out of his trance when a heavy body collided with his own, causing him to stumble backwards.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" a loud, hoarse voice screamed at him. It was familiar, but he was too absent-minded to even think about it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

He stopped himself mid-sentence when he looked up to see the person's face. His eyes widened in shock and horror.

_Rastapopoulos_.

He was bald, wrinkled in almost every inch of his skin, a bit hunched, and still as rude and grouchy as ever. But despite all those, he was still looking rich and fancy. The suit he was wearing, the single spectacle on his right eye, and the well-polished shoes on his feet spoke for him. He was still a money man.

It didn't take long for Rastapopoulos to recognize him, unlike the majority of the population there. He'd know his arch nemesis' face anywhere.

"You," Rastapopoulos growled. "_You_."

At that moment, Tintin didn't know what to do. He was caught off-guard, he was speechless, and he could only subconsciously take a small step backwards.

"Years of having you to stand in my way and foil everything I planned were enough! I am _not_ going to go through this again!" Rastapopoulos shouted.

Tintin gained his confidence back and narrowed his eyes at him. Rastapopoulos wasn't supposed to be there.

"Look, why don't you go back to your—"

"Don't you _dare_ to tell me what to do," Rastapopoulos hissed dangerously, once again cutting off his sentence. "I didn't get all the way here just to get caught! Now get out of my way, you little brat!"

Tintin simply stared at him, and then gazed down with an ironic smirk.

"…_Little brat_?"

Rastapopoulos soon realized his mistake – Tintin wasn't that little brat anymore. The words just slipped out, just like those years in the past. Looking at Tintin's expression, he almost felt sorry, and didn't bother to continue his argument. But he needed to get away – though Tintin was most likely to follow him – and not get caught.

He glanced at a small café only a few blocks away from where they were standing. He glanced at Tintin, then walked right past him and entered the café.

Triggered by Rastapopoulos' movement, Tintin snapped his head up and to his direction. "Hey!"

He ran – or at least tried to – and almost caught up with him, but he was still a little too slow. He entered the café just in time to see Rastapopoulos shoving an amount of money to the hands of a scared, nervous waiter who was ready to call the police.

"Keep quiet," he mumbled.

The waiter groggily nodded and returned quickly to his counter. Rastapopoulos took a seat on the table in the corner of the empty café. Tintin shook his head. The waiter surely would not dare to hand him a phone to call the police, so he approached the comfortably-sitting Rastapopoulos, again uncertain of what exactly he was about to do. The only thing he could think of was attempting to send him back to behind the bars, but he didn't know how.

Before he could do anything, Rastapopoulos muttered almost inaudibly to him, "You're miserable."

Once more, Tintin was taken aback. "W-what?"

Rastapopoulos gave out a low chuckle and looked up to him. "You're miserable."

Despite the repetition, Tintin still didn't know how to react, but the first thing that popped in his mind was that he had to be fully on his guard, because Rastapopoulos was not one of the good guys. He must be alert, and he must be very careful.

"Look," Tintin responded finally. "Whatever you're trying to do here, I'm not going to fall for it."

Rastapopoulos shook his head. "You really think this is still about me breaking out of prison?"

"I don't see any other reasons."

"Still as persistent as ever," Rastapopoulos answered with a ghostly smirk. "Some people never change."

The sentence flowed out so easily, and to Tintin, it was a great understatement. Giving Rastapopoulos a hard, intense stare, Tintin subconsciously sat down in front of him and managed to croak out, "You don't know _anything_ about changes."

"Don't I?" Rastapopoulos flashed his opponent a smile, as if he knew what Tintin had been through.

"_No_," he answered, almost too quickly, while still glaring at him. "What are you doing here? What are you planning this time?"

Rastapopoulos sipped the drink that was somehow on the table without Tintin even noticing, and leaned back.

"Aren't we a little… too old for this?"

Tintin could've sworn his heart skipped a beat. That hit the right emotional spot. That was what he's been regretting all day today – something he couldn't avoid, or change.

"Even up until now, you still think of chasing criminals and solving crimes?"

"Why does it even matter to you?" Tintin asked flatly in response.

Rastapopoulos shrugged. "It doesn't."

Tintin rested both his elbows on the table, still keeping a straight posture, resisting himself from slouching and looking weak. He tried to force himself to reply, while taking a quick mental note to himself not to look so pathetic.

But after moments passed, nothing came out.

By then, Rastapopoulos was smoking a cigarette. "I mean, look at yourself, Tintin. Old, weak, _pathetic_..."

So much for trying not to look pathetic.

"Aimlessly wandering around with no clue of what to do next."

Tintin didn't even bother to ask how he knew that. He knew he wasn't good in hiding it. "So you're just glad that my life is finally ruined," Tintin replied coldly.

"I never said it was," Rastapopoulos told him with an innocent look. "But now that you've mentioned it, as a matter of fact, I am."

"And I suppose _your_ life is in a much better state?" Tintin shot back, but soon regretted his words. Rastapopoulos may be a cold, dirty criminal, but he couldn't be as lonely and hopeless as he was.

"It certainly is," Rastapopoulos replied confidently and tightened his lips around his cigarette. "I'm rich, I'm free, I'm enjoying every single day I have in my life."

"Yet you're on the run," Tintin added, hoping to add a negative element in his description.

"For almost every second," Rastapopoulos confirmed and lifted his head a little, almost as if he were proud of it. "But that's where all the fun is."

Tintin breathed deep, trying not to let the words stab him again. But aside from his own feelings, he couldn't help but question everything about Rastapopoulos. To see him in such comfort and pleasure was far off his expectation. Rastapopoulos was a criminal living his own happy life. Tintin was supposed to be the winning hero living in glory. He was supposed to be so much happier. As arrogant as it sounds, it was true. But what he had was far, far less.

Things were so awfully wrong in his eyes.

Once regaining his composure, Tintin stared back at the wooden table, hesitating before he asked, "Have you ever even regretted all the things you've done?"

He almost jumped in surprise when Rastapopoulos gave him a loud, hearty laugh. When it faded to a stop, Rastapopoulos was shaking his head. "I knew everything I did was wrong. I knew I'd never do tings _your_ way, Tintin, nor did I ever plan to. There was a time that I told myself, 'I shouldn't have been doing this'."

Tintin almost couldn't believe that last part.

"There were those moments of regret. There were those years when I never bothered to escape." He took a large gulp of his drink and slammed the empty glass on the table. He paused, and whispered.

"But it was a stupid waste of time."

Tintin looked up a little at that sentence.

"What's done is done, and no matter how long you sit and stare, nothing is ever going to change."

"But that doesn't make right of everything you've done," Tintin told him. "Just because you regretted it doesn't mean you were never guilty."

"No, it doesn't," Rastapopoulos replied. "But then again, nobody could do anything about it even if they want to."

Rastapopoulos studied Tintin's frowning face for a moment and grinned. "I never expected the society to see me as a "good person", Tintin, I wouldn't be making any excuses for that."

"So you keep breaking the laws," Tintin said and crossed his arms. "Like running away from prison."

"I ran because I've had enough of wasting my time."

"But you knew it was wrong anyway."

"I never had intention for… redemption," Rastapopoulos responded in a low voice. "I only want to actually _do something_ with the time I have left. I grow old, everyone left, but that doesn't mean I have to sulk and rot until I die."

"It's only a consequence of your own actions," Tintin reminded him.

"Ha! How could I forget? You gave it to me yourself," Rastapopoulos said with an accusing look. "I lost my men, I lost my job, I was sentenced for twenty five years in prison—"

"And you still have _ten_ years to go," Tintin cut in, a little louder. "You _shouldn't be here_."

Rastapopoulos ignored him. "But I'm not going to sit there and take it. I'm getting my money back, and I'm going to go live a decent life, because _my_ life is what _I _make it."

Tintin paused and looked at him intently in a mild admiration. He sure was a man he knew his own goal in life. He still had to spirit to live, and he didn't stop. But soon he shrugged off his thoughts.

A criminal is a criminal.

"As much as I'm a criminal, Tintin," Rastapopoulos taunted as if he read his mind, "my life is far better than yours. And it's just the way I like it."

Tintin was so used to his words that none of them hurt him anymore. He was about to shoot back when a faint sound of police sirens wailed on the distance. "About time," Tintin declared with a smirk of triumph.

He could see the blood draining from Rastapopoulos' face, with his eyes fixed on Tintin, contemplating on whether he was going to be turned in or not.

Tintin responded with a heavy sigh. "Yes, maybe I am far too old to go through this again. But this doesn't change what I stood up for," he mumbled.

Rastapopoulos almost smiled. "You truly _are_ persistent."

Tintin was silent – maybe he was right. He physically changed, but inside, despite growing up and being more mature, he was still himself.

He was still Tintin.

He tore away his gaze from Rastapopoulos to the window of the café. The sirens went louder as two police cars approached and pulled over down the corner of the street. Three policemen stepped out, one signaling the others to search the buildings.

They were there for Rastapopoulos.

"Look, maybe if you turn yourself in, you may have a chance to—"

He turned back to see an empty seat where Rastapopoulos was, and just in time to hear the back door of the café clicked to a close. As two policemen entered the room, Tintin got up from his seat, still thinking on how he could have missed that. One walked over to the waiter, who was slightly panicking, and the other approached him.

"Good afternoon, sir," the policeman greeted and lifted his hat. He unrolled a scroll of paper, with a close-up picture of Rastapopoulos. "We are looking for this man, Roberto J. Rastapopoulos. He is one of the most dangerous criminals in town and is currently a prison escapee…"

Tintin started to mentally compare his life to Rastapopoulos'. They were both old, they were both alone, but Tintin didn't handle his life the way Rastapopoulos did. He gave up on what he used to do. He didn't even try. But he shouldn't have let time stop what he was doing. It wasn't even able to completely stop him, because the only thing that really got in the way was his own restraining self.

He is Tintin. And his life is what he makes it.

"Have you seen him?" the policeman finally asked.

For all his life, Tintin stood up for what is good, according to his morals and to the norms. It's the side he chose to stay on. And to make the best out of his remaining time is the choice he decided to make. He was going to get back the life he used to live. He wasn't going to give it all up.

He was going to _try_.

Rastapopoulos was a criminal at large, not planning to change his ways. And Tintin, as one who fights for truth and justice, wasn't planning to switch sides, either.

But he shook his head and muttered, "No."

He was going to let Rastapopoulos have his fun.

The policeman gave him a quick thank you and a short warning, and was about to rush out from the café to search the rest of the buildings. But then he stopped in his tracks, right at the door, and turned back to see Tintin. In respond, Tintin raised a brow in confusion. The policeman watched him, observing carefully, and mused for a few moments. Then, his eyes lit up.

"You're Tintin… aren't you, sir?"

Tintin smiled, almost grinning. This would be a great beginning for him.


End file.
